The quarter moon hung in the sky, bright against the black velvet background of the early night. It was a winter moon, low and large, and had risen early. A figure slender sat almost unnoticed on the concrete wall that lined the entrance to the T Station, as they called the subway in the Northeastern town. A man's black fedora was pulled low over her face, a sharp contrast to the thick shining blonde hair that hung loose beneath, save the small braid in the back woven with dull silver beading. A bomber jacket of black leather with a collar of matching fur topped the long legs garbed in black jeans. Her hands, delicate and petite, were covered in leather gloves trimmed at the cuffs also with fur, both the same color as the jacket. Through eyes of dark gold the figure peered at the passerby's, watching them, listening to them, occasionally canting her head ever so slightly as to allow her a better view of one that peaked her interest, but only for a moment. Then once more the eyes were almost unseen as she returned her gaze to the masses.
Snow had started falling earlier and blanketed the city in a coat of white, giving it the appearance of a place of enchantment as the many colored lights of the city reflected upon its surface. Tonight was a busy night in the city. Cars speed toward the huge round building not far from where the figure sat. It was a Saturday night and the hockey team was playing, Penguin banners were already prevalent among the masses, the fans hurrying in their expectation of being thrilled with the rapid play of the game, hoping for another win. As the time ticked away, the hour of the game's beginning came closer. Mari ka slid gracefully, without a sound, from her seat on the wall allowing herself to be swallowed up in the ever increasing number of fans that had braved the cold, as they hurried on foot towards the building in the round known as Mellon Arena. Ever so slowly a smile began to grace her lips, she had seen countless games of ice hockey played but never tired of the fast moving action as the players sped over the ice, trying to score, trying to win.
A gloved hand was stuck into the pocket of her low rise black jeans, as it was drug out, it appeared as her actions were but one motion, as she gave it to the man at the gate without missing a beat. Long legged strides, accentuated by the tie up black boots with three inch heels, soon had her at the row of her seat, the same seat she had sat in for every game since she had arrived in the Metropolis;is not more than two months ago. As she settled down into the chair she removed the hat revealing a face ageless, innocently and exotically beautiful, her eyes exotic in shape, large and different in color with their dark gold hues, glimmered in the lights of the arena. Next the gloves and finally the jacket were taken off till the young woman in the appearance of her mid twenties sat relaxed in her jeans, boots and the uniquely designed shirt of Cossack style done in satin that only served to add depths of color more to her eyes hue. Once more that smile ever so slightly graced her lips and she nodded to the others around her that had come to accept her prescience as ordinary.
But Marika was far from ordinary. No, she was not like any of the others that sat close to her, though she knew, sprinkled here and there throughout the crowd now filling the Arena's seats were several who knew just how unordinary she was. They had traveled with her to this Northeastern city. They had come each for their own reasons, without even having to look she knew exactly where they were seated, the very thought made her smile abit more, merely knowing of their existence. She would see them later, much later, at her loft in the Strip District of the city, later after the fans had gone home and laid their heads down to sleep.
For them, the fans seated around her, this was the climax of their day. They would watch the game, cheer, or boo, and then return home and retire to await the morning light which signalled them to rise and begin again. For Marika and her companions this was merely the beginning of their day. She had to mask a chuckle as she thought of the word "day". She had not really seen daylight in over 300 years. For Serge if had been longer, much longer, for Durinna it had been less. But she and Nickoli shared the length of time passed separated by mere months. As for all the fans around her the sun heralded the beginning of a new period of time, measured for them in hourly increments. For her and her companions, the sun heralded death. A slight cant of her head joined the smile on her face as she wondered if these modern day humans really believed still in what she was. A creature of the night. A walker of the shadows. A former lost child of unusual bloodlines rescued by a gypsy chieftain, who made her his own, a Gypsy Chieftain's daughter from the Great Russian Empire before even the wars, before even the killing of the last of the Czars had forced her to move with her friends to Romania and finally to the mountains of the Carpathian's. The lights dimmed as the players entered the ice, and she settled in comfortably preparing to be entertained by the game, Marika Anastasia Romanski, had finally made her presence known and public.
(to be continued)
As the lights dimmed and in the moment before the American Anthem, in a split second of time she knew he was there. Her blood started pounding in her veins, not in the way of the mortal perhaps but in the way that she had come to know. Soon his first step on the stop of the stairs that led him down to where she sat behind the Penguins goal was felt just before it hit the stair. She rose in the singing, her eyes straight ahead, she could smell his skin now as he stood near her and for once in a moment she remembered - One night like a god
he appeared by the fires of her camp. Dark long flowing hair, eyes deep with mystery, his voice was like the touch of a match to a fire hidden deep within, he reached for her, she reached for him, and then - memory triumphed and she turned eyes of a deep cold bronze color upon him, and switching to the native language of their people, she merely said, "What could you possibly want with me at this moment Serge that could not wait."
He stood there, just as he had almost now 400 years ago, hair black pulled back, eyes the same color of her's yet deeper, deeper like the amber of old, his shirt the exact style of her own, yet jet black, as black as the black leather jeans causing the three young women sitting behind where he was standing to have a problem with hyperventilation almost. He clicked his heels and took her hand, silver kissed silver ; each bracelet tumbling gently into the next as he raised her hand higher to his lips to kiss, "Kumpani, tis good to feast my eyes upon your beauty once more." whispering it just before her hand met his lips, in that voice of his, returning his answer in Russian. The very intonation let alone the touch of his lips made her recoil, yet there was something to be said for his chivalry, no matter what the world said chivalry was dead, dead, dead, dead, well, maybe in a very long nap but at any rate it suffered greatly, who else would know to kiss a lady's hand than a Duke, then she realized once more he almost had her under his spell, she pulled her hand from his in a motion sharp.
"Why Serge, tis a most curious surprise that I find you in such, how did you put it, an American exhibition of fruitless time use and frivolity." Her accent rich in their language, her tone warm but her eyes showed none of that warmth as she raised them into Serge's gaze. "Why Marika, you know how I enjoy games my dear one.", the last two words spilled from his mouth in such a husky tone of seduction she thought she heard one of the girl's swoon. One would have thought this conversation would be unnoticed, but not by the six foot two inch handsome man standing at the top of the stairs, holding two beers in his hand. Well, then he allowed himself to assess the young woman further, those long legs covered in black, that look on her face that was almost hypnotic, he knew she was alone, so he decided this was like striking pay dirt. He strode down the stairs just like he knew exactly where he was going, shoved past Serge and eased himself past Marika, smiling down at her, as her eyes went wide with such well rudeness! "I am so sorry hun, traffic was ridiculous, I do hope I am not too late, oh and here is your beer." Then he raised eyes of deep blue, and stared directly at the now straightened Serge, "Friend of your's?", his question directed to Marika.
to be continued)
we all have our illusions
Very good. Your story led me on a wonderful journey and I await the rest of it. I have to say that I really liked the ice hockey game being a part of your story (I play every Sunday night in an Oldtimers league).
what can I say.... more than beautiful